Update--!

I want to have a book of monsters. With all origins and pictures and horrible stuff, but a place that's full of references for horrible creatures that I can flick through when I want to get inspired. I can't find the book that I want, but then I had this awful thought-- what's stopping me from making one?

Probably what's stopping me doing everything else. Time, effort, all this stuff that comes with getting any kind of project out. Wanting! Wanting is so hard to muster a lot of the time what with work being draining and not having much else time for the stuff that's important to you.

Zenith! has stalled but is just waiting on Raj to get back so we can hack at the final draft of the première issue at our Editorial Meetings. I know that Zenith! will be out by the end of the year, and sure, it might come out on an irregular schedule, but it will come out. I can't wait for... #3, I think, which we decided would be our "evil issue". It's going to blow your mind. Hopefully. I mean, this delay after delay thing is all on me, I lost my drive for a few months, and I feel like it affected working with Mort and Raj, but I know it's got to be done, and I'm psyched for it. Hopefully with that coming out it'll lead to enthusiasm across the board.

My novel is being edited. Don has said that hopefully by the weekend he'll have some notes for me. Which is a start, and what I need to get excited again.

Craig told me that The Lucifer Cage (re-re-named back to what we originally intended after a slight deviation before my US trip) is moving forward, and that I should get the scripts sorted, which is fair. We shared an awkward moment about the [last] new name, wherein we just looked at each other, looked away, and I just said: "I don't think that's a good title, I prefer the old one." and Craig said: "Yeah, we'll figure it out." And we did, and it's awesome again. Phew.

So yeah. I could do stuff. I just don't and it gets me down, ha.

Travel Log #4

I thought I'd have more facilities to update my blog but the case is that all I've got is my qwerty on my mobile and I can barely do anything long form with it. So hopefully there'll be a chance to do something longer in the next week but it looks like I'm stuck using my notebook to do stuff by hand. Shame, but at least I'm doing stuff.

The heat here is stifling. Anyone following my Twitter feed will see my rampant complaining about that. the thing is, this place, Cortland (in Syracuse, in New York state) is in the middle of nowhere, pretty much. Means you can't escape it. And there's no AC in the dorms, you're reliant on fans. This place hurts my sensibilities. Hopefully New York, New York will be better! And the plan is to meet up with Craig, so that's exciting. But this place is just too staid and stifling for my liking.

Provenance, Pt. 2

And so he worked. Through the night, and the day, and the night after that, until his fingers burned and his eyes dimmed. He slept sparsely, catching an hour's sleep here and there, but for the most part the days and nights moved like a witching haze, the air around twisting like ivy around him, the world spinning without him anchored to the floor.

The stranger had the most majestic of plans, ornate in craft and conceived brilliantly on the scrap of yellowing paper he had handed to Mueller. "But friend, why do you need this?" He had asked, pouring over the specifications with the eye of an enthralled student, rather than the master the stranger claimed he was. "What purpose does it serve?"

The stranger smiled at the question with his thin lips, twisting at the corners like a cat in the night. "Because it is required in the world. A doorway. But the door itself will come later. I have plans for the door, don't you worry."

"I do worry. Constantly. A character flaw, I'm afraid, one I work to remove from my repertoire but consistenty fail at. But if you have plans, who am I to question them?"

"Precisely," the stranger had replied, and it did not make Mueller feel comfortable. Not one bit.

A month went by. And by the end of the month, with the wood carved to perfection, the only tarnish the blood Mueller had spilt in it's creation, the doorway was complete. Mueller couldn't help but impressed by his work. The way the frame twisted and wrended around itself was astonishing-- Mueller would not have believed himself capable of the work if he had not carved it with his own two hands. The ornate carvings he had been directed to introduce folded in on themselves, and if Mueller had an eye for ancient languages he would have read the true reason the frame was built. But he did not, and his ignorance, whilst blissful, did not last long.

"It is beautiful," said the stranger, when he arrived holding a small basket, a chequered blanket obscuring the contents. "Truly, a work of a master."

"So you say. When will the door be introduced? I would wish to be present, to make sure everything fits."

"It will fit. The dimensions of the door itself are..." The stranger considered the words, and then smiled as he settled. "Fluid."

"And what do you mean by that?" asked Mueller, tentatively.

"Ah, to tell, but to show..." said the stranger, slowly peeling off the blanket on top of his basket. "Close your eyes."

Travel Log #3

Whoever sat in this seat before me had a very warm arse.

I saw the guy.

This is a very disturbing experience for me.

Travel Log #2

This fact I know, this thing I do, and it works, always, wherever you are: Always respect the bar staff. Talk to them. Involve them (but not too much), because then, then my friends, you get free shit. Even in hotel bars.

I'm home.

Travel Log #1

Looks like I made it, yes? Alive and well and what not. Good thing too, else... well, else it would have been fail, duh.

Flight was awful, cramped and hot, child crying for the father that had abandoned his family for a first class seat. Got no sleep thanks to that band the fact I was sat in a flying metal casket.

The taxi rid to the hotel took just under two hours, give or take. Literally crashed on arrival in the hotel, slept from 5pm till 1am, missed the 4th of July celebrations (apparently they were brilliant, but hey, was exhausted).

This morning I trekked from the Marriott Hotel to Georgetown, over the Key Bridge (it's fucking long, and the sky is shooting death rays down The minimum heat is the maximum back home), and was wondering why everything was closed. Maybe later it'll open up, I dunno.

Right now I'm sat at the bar (go figure) waiting for it to open. Should I even bother trying to get served? A) I'm underage here, b) they dont serve cider and c) it's, what, 11am? Pssh...

Apologies for poor punctuation and the like, I don't think I'll ever get a handle on this damn QWERTY.

"Cupid and Psyche" - Update(?)

I think that people who ask me about the progress of the film I came into late in the game and helped co-write must think i'm a terrible liar. I say ridiculuos things, but I've never made them up, I'm going on what my collaborator has informed me, from what the prospective producers have told him. I'm on the outside looking in but I trust him, and I trust what he says. And if he tells me that the producers "dont want [Actress X] because Russell can't work with them" then what am I to say?

Increduluos things, I'm sure.

(Yeah, the new producer wants to cast a certain somebody as Cupid. Think about it.)